Locked up with the Badboy.

He combs a hand through his dark hair and sighs, "This is a maximum security prison, the people here have killed babies, shot up schools , killed multiple partners and run crime rings and you, are saying that I'm mean? "

He flashes me a grin, “Mhm, and then someone walked in with a cake and it ended.”

“What ended?”

“The dream.” He explains in a monotone.

“That was lame.”

“I know.”

“Hey do you think I could have a go driving?”

He raises a doubtful eyebrow, “How do I know you’ll drive safe enough?”

That makes me laugh, “Have you seen your own driving lately? You have pretty much broken every road-rule known to man.”

“And how do I know you’ll drive fast enough to avoid the authorities?”

I sit up, exposing a suggestive amount of leg and flick my hair a little, “We’ll, you’ll just have to try me…”

****

Within the space of five minutes I catch a blue-red flash in my mirror. I increase our speed and check the clock; 11.37. It’s almost as though Ben planned it.

The police car accelerates, drawing attention to itself with flashing lights and it’s loud baby-wail. As other motor vehicles pull off the road we cruise past, not fast enough though that we lose our tail. I swerve right and the cop swerves with me, perfectly matching my speed. “Ah, Ben help?” I say a little more franticly then I should.

I expect him to grab the steering wheel or attempt to swap places with me instead he says with a calm voice, “Push your right foot down Clara, this is a straight and we need speed.”

I obey – applying a little pressure as the cacti and cars flash by a little quicker. The police car holds its tail, ”Faster.” Ben says urgently and white knuckled I turn my foot to lead, clamping it on the accelerator. I’m scared stiff by the little red needle that reads 120 miles per hour.

Shit we’re fast.

120 must be a magical number or something, because the moment we go over it the police behind us gives up chase, disappearing somewhere in the car-stampede. Our Maserati screams along the highway, with me barely managing to avoid clipping the cars that we pass. Even focused the driver’s wingmirror gives a loud *crack* and splits in half as it collides with the boot of a four wheel drive. Horns follow us along the strait.

A hundred yards in front of us appears one of the sharpest corners on earth, “Ben.” I yelp, “Help.”

“Brake!” He yells back, As my foot hits the pedal and we’re thrown forward in our seats I fancy that I can already taste blood in my mouth and shrieking metal in my ears. The speedometer-needle curls then withers as we go into the corner at 80 mph and I have to swing the wheel like a mad woman as we brush up against a caravan. Tyres squeal, heart pounds, and slowly we ease out of the turn to the open highway again.

I look across at Ben, he still has his terror face on, “Yay, we survived!?” I say. For once his features aren’t gratinate.

“That was one of the most insane things I’ve ever seen,” he replies.

Like the cool cat I am I shrug, accelerate slightly and try not to hum Chariots of fire to loud. The dust that whips behind us leaves not one patrol car in sight.

****

“As fun as this has been we’re going to have to ditch the car,” Ben says five minutes from_ which I’ve just realised is in another state.

“Ben, we’re in New Mexico” I say, excited.

“You ever been to the land of enchantment?”

“Never.”

We change drivers at a gas station, this time I’m clothed and can actually buy something without feeling ludicrous. Two bottles of orange juice and a stack of filled rolls later and we’re on the road again.

Speeding down a highway Ben powers on the radio. On comes Ariana Grande, I hit the seek button and her voice disappears, “Hey what’s that for? Don’t you like Grande?” Ben protests.

“I’ve just heard that song too much,” I say diplomatically, “And yeah her music is crap…” The radio locks into another station.

“How dare you!” He mock-yells. “She has great music.”

“Urrg, you have no sense of tas-

“Wait, shut-up,” he says, reaching for the radio and turning it up. The voice is one of those hard to listen to, public radio voices. “…And police have warned that two infamous inmates who gained public recognition after a video of Von Oostradam saving Green went viral. The couple are believed to be hiding in the Arizona-New Mexico area, and are travelling in a red Maserati. Detective inspector Shane Dickson warns that they are not to be approached and have already used their car as a weapon. Von Oostradam is considered dangerous, after the murder of he-“

I blink as Ben turns the radio off. “Hey look, motorbikes.” He says, for my sake acting like nothing’s wrong, even though my nails dig into the leather that coats the passengers door. As Ben pulls into the carpark of ‘Jakes bike emporium’ he doesn’t look at me which I appreciate because I catch a glance of reflection in the wingmirror and see a face pale as snow. Ben parks the Maserati beside a green dumpster possibly to hide it from the occupants of the bike emporium.